On our last day at the Pines, Archie planned an excursion to Paul Smith’s Hotel, where it was rumored Alberto Ricci would be treating his fellow guests to a couple of songs. I had it on good authority from the man himself that this was in fact the case. Archie arranged for two Concord coaches, each drawn by four horses, to deliver the guests at the Pines to Paul Smith’s in the late afternoon so we could enjoy refreshments outside on the hotel’s lakefront prior to dinner. There was space for twenty guests in total, and Archie invited Ruthie and me to join him.
“What are you wearing?” Ruthie asked, pushing open the door to the bathroom in the cabin, where I was smoothing my hair with a comb and water, curving the ends so that they gently touched my jawline.
“Haven’t decided yet,” I said, dampening the comb again, attempting to tame an unruly fringe that wanted to flick left when it was supposed to lie straight across my brow. Ruthie stood behind me watching in the mirror, then she ran her fingers over the short red waves set in place to frame her face.
“You’re so lucky,” she said. “I could never do a razor-sharp bob like you.”
“Why would you want to?” I turned and cupped her red hair. “Your hair is so pretty.”
“But yours is so dramatic and startling.”
I turned back to my reflection and admired my new style. “That’s exactly what I’m going for.”
I powdered my nose, put some rouge on my cheeks and lips and looked in my closet. This would be the last night that I’d see Archie for a while. The pale peach dropped waist was a favorite of mine—I usually wore it with white gloves and a long string of pearls; it was the ideal dress for the occasion but too subdued for my mood.
“Is this too much?” I asked, grabbing the dark navy dress heavy with beading. It was not the most comfortable dress for sitting and dining, but it felt amazing to dance in, layer upon layer of beaded tassels swishing and jumping with every step. Ruthie came out of the bathroom and smiled.
“It’s a lot.”
I held it up and looked in the mirror. The contrast of my pale skin against the dramatic dark beading and my almost black hair was just what I wanted. “It is a lot,” I said. “It’s perfect.”
Ruthie decided on a turquoise hanky-hem dress that was definitely more appropriate for the afternoon-into-evening affair.
Carefully we climbed into the first coach.
“You really like this guy,” Ruthie said in a whisper.
“Who?”
“Archie. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this.”
“Like what?”
She tapped my knee and laughed. “Excited, anxious, checking in the mirror five times before we left the cabin. You care about this one, that’s all.”
I rolled my eyes.
“It’s a good thing, Olive, it’s nice.”
We spent the afternoon at the Casino—which was actually a boathouse, named not for all the gambling that apparently went on there but rather because it meant “little house” in Italian. The second floor was the men’s billiards room, with a separate card room for women—the owner had originally thought it was unseemly for men and women to engage in such activities together, but we all threw those cautions to the wind and commingled anyway. We went on a boat ride as the sun was setting and then ate dinner at tables set up along the lakeshore. Alberto performed as we ate dessert, and he insisted that I join him for “Ave Maria,” which earned us a standing ovation. I couldn’t believe I was actually singing to an audience with Alberto Ricci.
Later that night, back at the Pines after everyone had said good night and gone back to their cabins, Archie and I stayed up, watching the last of the embers glowing in the firepit.
“You were magnificent today,” Archie said, pulling me closer to him on the wooden bench. “Stunning in every way, and the way you and Alberto sang together, honestly, it was perfection.”
“Oh, Archie, you’re too kind. I think Alberto’s voice can make anyone sound good.”
“I hardly think so, Olive. On the contrary, I’m sure there are not many who could sing with him and sound halfway decent. You have a beautiful voice.” He kissed me. “And a beautiful smile.” He kissed me again. “And a beautiful neck.” I let my head fall back. “And beautiful shoulders … Olive?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes.” And he took me by the hand and we walked back to his cabin.
As soon as the door closed behind us, he slowly removed my dress, kissing me softly with each inch of skin he revealed. We moved toward the bedroom, and I urgently unbuttoned his shirt, desperate for us to touch.
“Archie,” I said. “I should tell you…”
But he kissed me again.
“Archie…” He kissed my ear, my neck, my collarbone. “Archie, you drive me wild.”
He picked me up and carried me the rest of the way.
Afterwards we lay in bed, his strong, muscular arms wrapped around me. I felt blissfully stunned. I’d never been with a man before, not like this. The one other time didn’t count; it had been so different, so unwanted. This was how it was supposed to be—this incredible intimacy—this overwhelming rush of emotion.
The only singing I heard as I rushed out of the cabin in bare feet, my shawl wrapped hastily around my shoulders, was the sound of coots and warblers making themselves known well past dawn. Our Follies group would be packing up and moving on to the next camp after breakfast, and I’d promised to meet Alberto on the lake one more time beforehand. He was staying only a few more days, and then he’d be heading to Philadelphia for a show, then back to Italy.
Archie and I had both slept in, and when I woke, I had to peel myself away, not wanting to leave him sleeping soundly next to me, but eventually I tiptoed out of bed. I climbed into the first boat I saw and rowed out on the lake in hopes of catching Alberto at the tail end of his vocals, just to say goodbye.
“Yoo-hoo,” I called out. The lake was smooth as glass, and there was barely any fog. I could make out the shape of his canoe from a long way off, but there was no sign of Alberto. “Ciao, Alberto,” I called out. Could he have gone for a swim? I wondered. But the water was calm all around, and the air was too cold at that time in the morning.
“Hello,” I called again as I approached. He popped up from lying flat in the canoe with an arm over his eyes.
“I thought you do not make it,” he said, rubbing his eyes.
“I thought you’d drowned,” I said.
“I did. In last night’s wine. My head is booming.”
“Does that mean we’re not warming up?”
“Absolutely not. But the air out here is helping il mio mal di testa.” He rubbed his temples.
“I know how you feel. I didn’t go to sleep until three in the morning. Archie and I sat out by the campfire.”
“Are you innamorata?”
“Well, it’s a bit soon for that,” I said, feeling myself blush but unable to keep from smiling at the thought of Archie’s touch.
“I always know immediately if I’m in love.”
“You make it sound like it’s a regular occurrence.” I laughed. “How many times have you been in love?”
“Molte, molte. Too many times. You?”
“Molte,” I said with my hands.
The truth was I’d never been in love before. I hadn’t allowed myself the time or inclination—I’d had one goal, of becoming a star, for as long as I could remember.
And yet the thought of leaving the camp and not seeing Archie again for a while weighed heavily on me. I’d be traveling to the other camps for the rest of the tour and it was only mildly likely that Archie would be in Manhattan upon my return. I’d taken every opportunity I had to be around him during my time there. I walked by boccie ball games in the afternoon, I stayed around the campfire long after the other performers went to bed. I even found myself wanting to rush through rehearsals to see him again, and now, after last night, the thought of our lives continuing on without each other outside the confines of the camp felt all wrong.
“How do you know if it’s really love?” I asked.
“You just know, Olive.” He smiled. “But be careful. Men like that, wealthy, important, they don’t like performers—singers, dancers, actresses.”
“Oh no, Archie loves that I sing. In fact, our second meeting was during one of my shows. I landed in his arms. It was wild.…” I was about to tell him the whole story of flying off the stage and meeting him on the dance floor. But Alberto wagged his finger at me.
“Honestly, Alberto, he’s not like that.”
He shrugged and lay back in his canoe. “You should audition at the Metropolitan Opera House.”
“I’m not good enough for that.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Get good enough. I make the introduction next time I’m in New York. Always you keep aiming higher. Ziegfeld is good for now, but always you think, What’s next for Olive?”
“If I could just keep on with what I’m doing I’d be happy, but sometimes I feel as though it could all slip away.”
“It could,” he said matter-of-factly. “It always could. That is why you must be careful.”
I tried to brush it off. Be careful? What did that even mean?
“Be careful with your heart, be careful with your talent,” he continued. “That is all.”
We traveled throughout the Adirondacks for the next several weeks, each camp more impressive than the last. There were imported English clay tennis courts, croquet lawns, trails flush with wild raspberry bushes, late night swimming parties and retinues of servants that outnumbered the guests three to one. We met and mingled and performed, and Ruthie was right, it was quite a lovely way to spend a month in the middle of summer. But by the end of it, I was ready to return. I missed the city and I missed Archie. I couldn’t wait another minute to be back in his arms.